Reason Enough
by malinoislover
Summary: "Why are you doing this then, hmm? If it isn't to prove your intellect or to prove that you are better than anyone, everyone else, what is it for?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock's fingers stopped moving against the strings, but he didn't hesitate to answer. [JohnLock]


Inspired by this gif: herrholmes-dot-tumblr-dot-com/post/32252271990

"You don't have to do it like this," Mycroft argued and let his voice rise in pitch. "You don't have to be so bloody stubborn._ I can help you_."

Sherlock just continued to gently pluck at the strings of the violin against his chest, eyes turned away, toward John's empty chair across from him.

"You can't help me," Sherlock said after a few moments, fingers still plucking. "It must be my own doing. I have to do it this way."

"No, you don't. You're just being a stubborn fool," Mycroft said swiftly. "You won't let me help you because you have a bloody God-complex and you think that no one should ever have to help you. The Great Sherlock Holmes doesn't need anyone but himself. Have you even thought about the people who care about you?" Mycroft took in a short breath. "No, because you don't care about anyone else but yourself. It's all about the Great Sherlock and his mighty intellect. That is what you are fighting to prove, that you are the greatest mind of all time."

Mycroft stood up and reached for his umbrella, readying himself to leave. He knew Sherlock believed his obvious anger as real, something he'd counted on. Sherlock always believed himself to have the upper hand when his older brother was angry. Mycroft wanted him to believe that tonight. He needed the truth from his brother. The older Holmes had to be certain Sherlock was truly sure of himself and his choice to charge into this war alone. He needed to be sure that Sherlock wasn't simply doing this to prove himself and his intellect against an adversary.

Sacrifice was noble in the right circumstances. Otherwise it was stupid. And Mycroft would be damned before he let his younger brother make a stupid choice that had such potential dire consequences.

_I need to know you've thought this through. That you know the true cost of your actions. I need to know why, truly why, you are doing this._

_I need to know that you know why._

"That isn't true," Sherlock said softly and Mycroft stopped.

"What?" Mycroft asked as he straightened up.

"You heard me, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a dramatic eye roll.

"Why are you doing this then, hmm? If it isn't to prove your intellect or to prove that you are better than anyone, everyone else, what is it for?" Mycroft asked, keeping his tone just shy of livid. _Come on, Sherlock. The truth if you'd be so kind._

Sherlock's fingers stopped moving against the strings, but he didn't hesitate to answer.

"_John_," he said as he turned to look up at his brother._ Ah, there it is. Finally_. _The truth. The reason you're so desperate to sacrifice everything._

Mycroft fought the urge to smile as the name fell from Sherlock's lips.

He had, of course, known from the beginning. He was a Holmes; he had the powers of deduction just as Sherlock did.

Mycroft had seen the way his brother was around the good doctor. Not really a new and different person, just... _better_. Sherlock was a better mind, a better person, when the doctor was by his side. And more importantly perhaps, was the fact Sherlock_ wanted to be better because of John_. And on the opposite, John wanted to be better because of Sherlock. They both were better. Neither wanted to _change_ the other or themselves; they loved each other, faults and all.

Mycroft had seen this; he had seen the looks, the soft touches, everything between them. He wasn't blind nor was he stupid.

Mycroft knew his brother was capable of love. But he never expected his brother to admit such a thing so openly. Or at all, really.

"Sentiment," Mycroft tried to scoff but his heart clearly wasn't in it. He sat down.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. He hadn't seemed to notice that Mycroft had intentionally goaded him into admitting his reasons.

"Love," Sherlock countered, turning to look at John's chair across from him. A smile played upon his lips.

"Love," Mycroft repeated, a little unsure that he'd actually heard the word uttered from his brother's lips without sarcasm or utter disdain.

"Yes," Sherlock said, voice oozing the normal sarcasm. "_Love_. Shall I get you a dictionary or can you recall the meaning on your own?"

"You love Dr. Watson," Mycroft said. The smile broke free and tugged the corners of his mouth upward.

"With everything I am," Sherlock replied, once again looking at Mycroft. "I have to do this my way, alone, to protect him."

"What if losing you destroys him?"

"He's stronger than you credit him."

"No one is strong enough to lose such love and not be scarred."

"He's already scarred," Sherlock said, eyes moving to the corner of the room. Mycroft's eyes followed suit. John's cane sat tucked into the corner, a real life reminder to John and Sherlock (and Mycroft) of what life was before they met. Two broken, lonely, not completely whole people.

"He will heal." Sherlock cut his eyes back to his brother for a moment. "It's better than dead, Mycroft. I can't heal the dead."

"No, not even you can do that," Mycroft mused softly. "Though he may never forgive you."

"But he will be alive," Sherlock said, his voice thickly final, matter-of-fact. "He will be alive."

"You may very well not be there to see it," Mycroft said. Sherlock Holmes possessed a great mind, had an unbelievably strong will, of course. But he still had a human body. He was flesh and bone and blood. Despite it all, he was not an immortal being, not even unbreakable. Mycroft could not be sure the plan wouldn't kill his brother. He was rather certain it would.

"That is trivial," Sherlock said, plucking at the strings again. The sound was soft, mirroring Sherlock's voice. "He will be alive, filling the world with his goodness and light." Mycroft fought the slight urge to point out the poetic nonsense that his brother just spouted out was something Sherlock usually hated. Sherlock shot him a knowing glance and Mycroft realized that it wasn't just nonsense to him. It was how Sherlock saw his doctor. It was how his doctor truly was.

"What if he loses that when he loses you?"

"You can't lose who you are, Mycroft," Sherlock said in his favorite condescending tone.

"You did," Mycroft bit back. "Did you not?"

"What?" It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes but just this once he refrained.

"You've lost yourself in John, have you not?"

"I haven't lost anything," Sherlock said, turning a pair of hard eyes on Mycroft. "I've _given_ it."

"And what has he given you?"

"_Everything,_" Sherlock said. Mycroft didn't have a retort. He simply looked at his brother.

"He's given me everything, Mycroft," Sherlock continued. "And I'll be damned before—"

"—I get it, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted gently. Sherlock scrutinized him.

Despite his cold exterior and aloof attitude, Mycroft was capable of sentiment, of love. He was in front of Sherlock for reasons, both logical and emotional at the current minute. He _loved_ his little brother, truly. And Sherlock knew it. Mycroft was human too with blood that pumped through a heart which, despite his best efforts, ached sometimes. It ached now. Mycroft could, and very likely would, lose his brother no matter the move he made.

But, Mycroft understood it- there was no greater reason for a sacrifice of this magnitude than the love between the doctor and the world's only consulting detective.

There could be no Sherlock without John. John could survive without Sherlock. It wouldn't be easy, but John was capable. John could make it. Sherlock couldn't; he would wither away. Mycroft knew it. Sherlock knew it.

The two flatmates were, for all intents and purposes, two halves of a whole. A dusty, tarnished, and damaged sort of whole but a whole nonetheless.

John was the anchor, the strength, the source of light between them. Sherlock was the wind, the wings, the darkness. Sherlock would simply float away without John now. Sherlock's willingness to sacrifice himself, his life, his brilliant brain was justified.

Sherlock was readying to step into the greatest fight of his life. For his life. For his entire life- _for John_.

Seemingly satisfied that Mycroft was being truthful, Sherlock looked down at the violin and began to strum it gently.

"You didn't have to pretend to be angry," Sherlock said with a smirk after a few minutes of silence. Mycroft fought against another smile. "I knew what you were doing. Goading me along to prove to yourself that I wasn't just suicidal or desiring to prove myself, and I had actually thought it all through. I have, Mycroft. And I will do whatever it takes.

_Maybe you have a chance, dear brother. Maybe you can come out on the other side of this alive. Whole. A victor._

"You didn't have to pretend to fall for it," Mycroft retorted. "I just worry about you."

Sherlock gave a light chuckle.

"Good luck, dear brother," Mycroft said as he stood up. In an uncharacteristic motion, he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against the crown of Sherlock's head. In an even more uncharacteristic motion, Sherlock leaned in to rest against his brother ever so slightly.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called at his back as he reached the door.

"I will watch out for him," Mycroft promised, already aware of what Sherlock wanted.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

Mycroft pulled the door closed and stood with his back against the cool wood as he gathered himself.

Violin music filled the flat moments later. A soft sweet melody. Mycroft smiled again.

As he began down the stairs he heard Sherlock's soft statement.

"_This is all for you, John_."


End file.
